Dusk, Night, Dawn: On Revival and Courage

Finally got around to Anne Lamott’s latest, and it was exactly the spiritual hug I needed this week. Her voice feels like a long-distance call with an old friend who isn't afraid to mention the messy parts of getting older. While some might find her tangents a bit wandering, I find that her disjointed pacing actually mirrors how my own brain functions during stressful times. Hearing her talk about being a newlywed at sixty-six gives me so much hope for the future, even with the climate crisis looming over us like a dark cloud. The 'kitten isn't dead' mantra has basically become my new internal screensaver for when anxiety kicks in. To be fair, her brand of Northern California liberalism is thick here, but her honesty about her own neuroticism makes it palatable. It’s a beautiful reminder that we can still find light in the dusk.

After hearing so many wonderful things, I finally dove into this and I’m so glad I did. Lamott writes like a friend who is sitting across from you at a kitchen table, drinking tea and admitting she’s just as lost as you are. Her reflections on marriage at sixty-six are so tender and funny; it’s refreshing to hear about romance that isn't aimed at twenty-somethings. Look, the world feels pretty bleak right now with everything going on, but this book is a genuine balm for a tired spirit. I found myself highlighting passages on almost every page, especially the parts about how kindness can change our internal chemistry. It’s an inspiring guide for anyone trying to restore a little joy in their life without ignoring the reality of the 'ghastly behavior' out there. Absolutely loved it.

This book arrived at exactly the right moment in my life when I was feeling particularly jaded. Lamott has this gift for finding the sacred in the mundane, whether she's talking about a power outage or her relationship with Neal. The truth is, her writing is so incredibly honest that it makes you feel less alone in your own 'outlandish, anxiety-ridden thoughts.' I laughed out loud at several sections, but I also found myself tearing up at her descriptions of the kindness of strangers. It’s a book that feeds the soul by acknowledging the grime of the world while still insisting on the existence of light. Some call it disjointed, but I think it’s just authentic to how we experience hope—in fits and starts. A truly beautiful read.

Not what I expected, but exactly what I needed to hear right now. Lamott’s amazing honesty about her own faults is what makes her so readable; she never pretends to have it all figured out. The 'kitten isn't dead' mantra has honestly changed how I deal with my morning anxiety spikes. It’s a book full of small victories and quiet faith, even when the news is shouting about climate change and political disaster. In my experience, her writing style feels less like a sermon and more like a conversation with a wise, hilarious aunt. The disjointed nature of the essays actually makes it easier to pick up and read a few pages when you need a quick boost. Highly recommend for anyone feeling a bit frayed at the edges.

Wow, she really captured the specific vibration of post-pandemic anxiety in these pages. Lamott has this uncanny ability to make you laugh about the end of the world while simultaneously reminding you to be kind to your neighbors. I’m still thinking about that image of 'butterfly soup' inside the cocoon—it's such a visceral metaphor for the messy middle of personal growth. Not gonna lie, the pacing is a bit all over the place, and some essays definitely land harder than others. However, her take on how we hire 'dread as our governess' when we’re kids hit me right in the gut. Even when she’s complaining about her health or the political climate, there’s a thread of stubborn hope that keeps the book from becoming depressing. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.

The chapter on her missing kitten alone makes this worth the price of admission. It’s such a perfect illustration of how our brains spiral into the worst-case scenario over the smallest things. Personally, I think her humor is what saves this book from being just another 'liberal lament' about the state of the world. She manages to tackle climate breakdown and political division without losing her sense of the absurd. The structure is a bit loose—it feels more like a series of blog posts than a tightly edited narrative—but that’s part of the charm. If you’re looking for a rigid roadmap to revival, you might be disappointed. But if you want some company in the dark while you wait for the dawn, Lamott is the perfect companion.

As someone who has followed Lamott for years, I found 'Dusk, Night, Dawn' to be a solid addition to her canon. She’s still the queen of the unexpected metaphor, and the 'butterfly soup' analogy is one I’ll be using for a long time. There is a specific kind of wisdom here that only comes from living through several decades of your own mistakes. Gotta say, the bit about meeting someone's 'bodyguard' for the first time really made me reevaluate my own social interactions. While the prose can get a bit overwrought in the middle chapters, the emotional payoff in the final essays is significant. It’s not quite as punchy as her earlier stuff, but it feels more contemplative and grounded. A very human book for a very difficult time.

Is it just me, or does this feel a lot like her previous three books? I’ve always appreciated her amazing honesty, and the section about meeting someone's 'bodyguard' instead of their true self was brilliant. But after a while, the self-deprecating neuroticism starts to feel a little bit like a performance. Truth is, I found the references to her faith a bit thinner this time around compared to her earlier works like 'Traveling Mercies.' The book moves from climate change to her new husband Neal to kitten stories with very little transition, making the experience feel somewhat fragmented. It’s a decent read for a rainy afternoon, but it didn't quite feed my soul the way I expected it to. I’ll always read her work, but this wasn’t her strongest outing.

Ever wonder if an author is just writing for their own social circle? At times, this book felt a bit like that, steeped in a very specific Northern California brand of liberalism that can be a little off-putting. I did get a chuckle out of her hating the poetry readings in chapter seven, mostly because it felt like the first truly relatable moment in the book. However, the rest of the essays felt somewhat random and lacked a strong through-line to connect the themes of 'revival and courage.' To be fair, her prose is always elegant, but the 'potted wisdom' moments felt a bit forced this time. It’s a pleasant enough read, but it lacks the grit and transformative power of her earlier work. Good for a fan, maybe not for a newcomer.

I wanted to love this because 'Bird by Bird' is a classic, but this felt like a collection of random thoughts without a cohesive center. Frankly, the author’s perspective feels incredibly insulated within a specific kind of upper-middle-class bubble that I struggled to relate to. When she described her disdain for listening to people read their poetry in chapter seven, I realized I was feeling that exact same impatience with her prose. There are moments of genuine humor, sure, but they are buried under layers of what I can only call 'potted wisdom' that sounds profound but says very little. It’s too disjointed for a self-help guide and too repetitive for a memoir. I respect her long career, but this particular volume felt like it was rushing toward a deadline rather than speaking from the heart.